


sois sérieux

by bottleredhead



Series: that time a tumblr user/anon prompted me [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gratuitous use of italics, M/M, Mating, Possessive Behavior, Tumblr Prompt, but not in the conventional meaning, possessive!E, slight non-con that turns into dub-con but then there is consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He cleverly ignores the voice telling him that this is a Bad Idea in Combeferre’s voice and the other voice telling him to 'just mark the bloody human already, Jesus Enjolras' that sounds suspiciously like Bahorel.</p><p>There’s also another voice in his mind, much more wild and harder to ignore than the others, which can only growl one word: mine. The need to mark is humming in his veins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sois sérieux

**Author's Note:**

> Blame the tumblr anon who prompted me. This certainly ran away from me.
> 
> Edit as of **20/August:** Though the issue has't been raised, I've added a slight dub-con tag because while Grantaire doesn't give wolf!jolras explicit permission to mate with him, he does allow it in the end, though after the act has been halfway completed. I take consent very seriously, and I'm sorry for not having added the tag from before.

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=ogmbva)

The full moon shines through a break in the clouds, illuminating the young, blond man standing in the middle of the deserted courtyard. His hair gleams in the light, matching the amber glinting from behind the larkspur blue of his eyes.

_Crack!_

The young man drops to all fours. The cracking sound echoes around the courtyard, bouncing off the cobblestone floors as he writhes and shudders. A series of cracks sound as his back bends in half, arms contracting and hands snapping backwards to form claws. He screams, the tortured sound breaking off into a howl as dark, honey-coloured fur sprouts from his skin in tufts.

The end result is a lean wolf with eyes that are the strangest mix of amber and blue.

* * *

 

Being in wolf form is vastly different than being his regular self. For one, his senses are much sharper. His eyes take in everything in minute detail, transforming the most mundane of objects into a kaleidoscope of colour. He can hear the sound of a pin dropping from half a mile away (loud noises cause a whining in his ear that takes ages to get rid of). _Everything_ is different when he’s a wolf, especially humans.

Enjolras tries to stay away from humans while he’s a wolf. While he does not feel the urge to mark and mate as much as other wolves simply by virtue of being an Alpha, he’s worried that he’ll come across his mate and mark him without stopping to think of the consequences. A mated wolf would need to spend ridiculous amounts of time with his human mate, time Enjolras cannot spare. Between his fight to gain equal rights for wolves and keeping his pack in line, he’s the busiest he’s ever been.

But humans can be oh so enticing, so he transforms in empty places. This full moon, he isn’t so lucky.

He can smell the human the moment he transforms. The warmth of him (yes, this one is male) is like a beacon to his inner wolf-self, siren-like in its call. The scent of him invades his nostrils next, and he has to recoil to stop himself from chasing that very familiar smell. Because of fucking course the first time he changes with a human present, it would be his goddamn mate.

A growl rips free from his throat when he hears the human’s voice. He knows who that is.

He knows who his potential mate is and he is in wolf form and _fuckfuckfuck._

* * *

 

Grantaire is humming quietly to himself as he works, paintbrush sliding across the canvas in rhythm with the beat of his song. The palette in his left hand is a comforting weight, its light-coloured wood dappled with shades of grey, white and black. The monochrome painting is coming along well, if he says so himself.

If he weren’t forced to stand in a reportedly haunted abandoned mental asylum, it would be one of his favourite commissions. See, it’s not that he’s scared – Grantaire would kindly like to inform you that there’s no such thing as ghosts – but it’s never a bad thing to be alert when in a strange, new place, right?

* * *

 

Enjolras pads silently across the stone floor, steps light so as to not alert the human of his presence. This close, the scent all but attacks him, wafting up his nostrils to settle in his stomach warmly. The human – he refuses to name him until he can see for himself, so he can be absolutely certain – is somewhere in this labyrinthine building, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get a glimpse of him even though this place makes his hackles rise.

(He also cleverly ignores the voice telling him that this is a Bad Idea in Combeferre’s voice and the other voice telling him to j _ust mark the bloody human already, Jesus Enjolras_ that sounds suspiciously like Bahorel.

There’s also another voice in his mind, much more wild and harder to ignore than the others, which can only growl one word: _mine_. The need to mark is humming in his veins.)

He reaches the room containing the human, moving to nudge the door open with his snout. The door screeches in a way unaccounted for, prompting the man to turn around, blue eyes wide when they fall upon the golden wolf in the doorway.

For a moment, Enjolras is frozen in place as his blood _sings_ at the sight of Grantaire, just as a ball of yearning unfurls in his chest. It kicks at him from the inside, nudging him in the direction of the frightened artist.

Something clatters to the floor, and an idle part of his mind notes that it is a painting palette. The majority of his thoughts, however, are centered on his fucking mate standing in front of him looking like he’s in a scene from the Grudge.

Grantaire takes a step backwards.

Enjolras lunges.

* * *

 

He’s just placing the finishing touches on the painting when the door behind him creaks open. Unthinkingly, he turns around, expecting to see…

…anything other than a golden wolf staring at him with the brightest eyes he’s ever seen.

The first thought that crosses his mind is _I want to paint those eyes_.

The second is if _I live that long, holy fuck that’s a_ wolf.

It isn’t a big animal, per se, and would look mostly non-threatening if its maw weren’t hanging open, revealing viciously sharp canines and ginormous molars that look very capable of chewing Grantaire-morsels until he’s an easily swallowed snack.

(What’s strange is the almost conflicted look on the wolf’s face, as though it is having some sort of moral dilemma – the expression reminds him, absurdly, of Enjolras. And that’s quite right, he thinks, of course he would be thinking of the man he’s been in love with for the past three years in his probably-last moments.)

Neither of them moves, for a moment, both caught in a freeze frame for an immeasurable amount of time. He’s so focused on the wolf that he forgets about the palette in his hand until it clatters to the ground with a noise that echoes in the mostly empty room. The wolf’s eyes snap to the mess of paint and wood for a moment before settling back on him with an intensity that causes him to take a surprised step backwards. The last thing he sees before he trips over the leg of the easel is the wolf, all cat-like grace, lunging at him.

* * *

 

Enjolras has moved before fully realising the repercussions of his actions. One moment he’s crouched by the door, and the next he’s flying through the air only to land on Grantaire. His paws press the man’s shoulders to the cold ground underneath them, hind legs bracketing Grantaire’s hips in a warning even though he doesn’t so much as breathe. Well, neither of them is breathing, to be honest.

Grantaire’s saucer-wide eyes are trained on him, all the more blue because of the fear in them. His body is completely still underneath him, despite him being careful to distribute his weight over the human-frail body so that the artist does not get crushed.

But that fear, that delicious, terrible, great and horrible fear is doing things to him. He wants, so badly, to mark Grantaire, claim him, and take him. He also wants to run away, frightened by the sadistic images playing in a montage in his head.

He watches the muscles move in Grantaire’s throat as he swallows, entranced by the shifting occurring underneath the alabaster skin. So smooth, so easily breakable. His eyes zero in on the pulse thrumming at his jugular, and as though wanting to put on a show, it starts beating faster thus causing the skin to almost dance.

 _Mine, mine, mine,_ each beat seems to say. Enjolras can’t help but agree.

He dips his head, nose sliding down the curve of Grantaire’s graceful neck until it reaches that pulse. Mouth opening, he licks a long strip along the thrumming, feeling it go even wilder underneath his wet tongue.

“Please,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras doesn’t know what he’s pleading exactly, but he’s past caring by now. His inner wolf growls loudly at his human self, shushing the unvoiced protestations in favour of letting animal instinct take control.

Grantaire keens. He bites.

* * *

 

He screams when the sharp teeth puncture his skin. The pain is blinding, white-hot and searing from the point of contact to the rest of his body. He tries to struggle, push the damn wolf off him, anything, but the paws on his shoulders hold fast. Thrashing does nothing to get the billion-pound animal to budge, retaliating instead by biting even deeper until he can feel those canines tear at his carotid artery.

Just as the pain reaches its climax and Grantaire thinks this is it, I’m going to die, all sensations of ache and discomfort disappear, replaced instead with an immense pleasure that sends tingles down his spine and has his toes curling. A contented little moan escapes his mouth, a stark contrast to his previous tortured wail.

And the wolf makes an _hmming_ sound in response, sounding far too fucking pleased than any animal should be capable of being. The thought is a sobering one, causing him to take stock of the situation.

  1. He’s on his back on the floor of an abandoned mental asylum that’s rumoured to be haunted.
  2. There’s a wolf on him.
  3. Said wolf is – what, sucking his blood? No, that’s vampires. Well, the wolf is biting him, for sure.
  4. It hurt at first but now it feels orgasmic and he’s biting his lip to stop from moaning like a wanton wench.



He’s been drunk before, but never enough to hallucinate such a vivid scene. And everything feels too fucking real to be a dream, anyway.

* * *

 

Enjolras is glad as fuck that wolves can’t moan, because he’s pretty sure that’s what he’d be doing now. Grantaire’s struggling isn’t enough to dislodge him, and the part of him not consumed by how _good_ Grantaire feels and tastes is concerned for the man. He’s never seen anyone take a mate, and knowing the facts is different than experiencing the situation firsthand. The screams hurt both his ear and his heart, the former because of his super wolfy hearing (Courfeyrac’s words) and the latter because the primal animal in him automatically goes into protection mode – but how could one protect another from oneself?

He can pinpoint the moment the pain shifts into pleasure when the blood flowing across his tongue and dripping from the corners of his mouth turns from bitter with fear and confusion into salty-sweet, almost spicy with how rich it is. He can feel it resonate within him, the imprint purring in the back of his mind.

He finally releases Grantaire’s neck with a squelching sound. The wound immediately starts closing, his saliva healing the artery, tendons and skin underneath the layer of blood. Grantaire’s pupils are blown with desire, only a thin line of blue showing at the edges, and he watches Enjolras with hooded eyes.

Own body humming with the euphoria the bond creates, Enjolras begins to transform back into his human self. The breaking and reshaping of his bones isn’t nearly as painful as usual with the power of the bond running through his veins, the de-sprouting of fur a mere tickle instead of the typical skin-growth. The entire process is much faster, as well, unhindered by the fact that the moon is still fat and out.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire cries, voice thick with confusion. “What- I don’t-“

Enjolras, human once again and spectacularly naked, pushes Grantaire back into a reclining position only to climb back over him. The denim of his jeans is deliciously rough against his bare leg, soft t-shirt creating a wonderful contrast. (Idly, Enjolras wonders if anything can fall short of wonderful at the moment. Probably not, he decides.)

He flips them over so Grantaire’s head is lying on his chest, wrapping his arms around him possessively. “Shh,” he murmurs, “we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“You mean about the fact that you can apparently turn into a wolf and then bit me while being said wolf? Sure. No problem. Tomorrow.” The panic in his voice is poorly concealed, prompting Enjolras to drop a drowsy kiss to the black curls underneath his jaw.

Slowly, Grantaire’s harsh breathing eases into that of the sleeping. The sound lulls Enjolras into sleep as well, all thoughts drifting off as the warm weight in his arms settles.

One thought remains, however. It is a pleased thought, one that brings a wave that is euphoria and contentment in equal parts crashing over him.

_Mine._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Comments and kudos are very welcome. Find me at enjolraspermitsit on tumblr.


End file.
